


And The Dragon Will Come When He Hears The Drum

by chroniclackofselfpreservation



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Blood, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Choking, Established Relationship, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulation, No Smut, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roman is the villain this time..., Sympathetic Villain, Threats of Violence, Toxic Relationships, Undead, Violence, and is an overall jerk for most of the story, dragonshifter au, healer!patton, i guess roman isn't really evil but he's definitely not a good person... so..., no slowburn here bois, prince - Freeform, remus being remus tbh, roman acts a lot like remus, trouble moving on, undead characters, until the impending redemption arc of course, warlock!logan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29225664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chroniclackofselfpreservation/pseuds/chroniclackofselfpreservation
Summary: Prince Roman didn’t care about dragons. Putting him in charge of the anti-dragon brigade was his parents’ simple solution to keeping him from usurping them. When one encounter costs him more than he bargained for, however, he vows to hunt down the dragon responsible and get his revenge.Or, Janus frantically tries to keep Virgil from dying and Remus from destroying a kingdom.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Logicality, anxceit
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	1. or shall i bring you the sound of poisons

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by @local-space-case on tumblr: Prince Roman and his two loyal friends, Patton and Logan, are on the hunt for a dragon. Meanwhile, Dragonshifter!Janus is just trying to find the right herbs to cure a sick/injured Dragonshifter!Virgil. Bonus points for Anxciet and/or Protective Remus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: graphic violence, blood and gore, character death
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Elm" by Sylvia Plath

Roman struggled to his feet, slipping in the snow that had turned to muddy slush amid their battle with the black-scaled dragon. His head swam and his ribs throbbed. The ground rumbled beneath him as the beast let out a guttural roar. His sword. He needed his sword. 

There was a sharp snap followed by an explosion of blue light that nearly sent Roman to the ground again. The sheer heat of it turned all the snow to water instantly, turning the clearing into a muddy bog. 

“Roman?!” Logan shouted from somewhere out of sight. “Are you okay?”

He looked up, blinking his vision clear. Logan stood several yards away, hands raised and palms spewing rolling waves of blue flame, keeping the dragon at bay for the moment. Roman’s stomach fluttered. His partner looked downright gorgeous with blue light flickering across his face, power alight in his glowing eyes. 

Logan noted his expression and sighed. “It’s hardly the time for that, dearest.”

A wolfish grin spread across Roman’s face as he finally got his feet beneath him. “I’ve always got time to be in awe of you, my love.” He located his sword, stuck halfway out of the ground a few paces away. 

The dragon was on the smaller side, perhaps ten feet tall at the shoulder and three times as long, tail included. It shied away from the onslaught of magical blue flame. Sure, dragonscale was fire resistant, but that wouldn’t stop the creature’s insides from cooking. 

This particular beast had been stealing livestock from the surrounding villages with increasing frequency, so much so that farmers had petitioned the throne for aide. As both head of the anti-dragon brigade and a prince of this land, Roman had a solemn duty to protect his kingdom’s welfare. As for _where_ the rest of the brigade _was,_ the prince was less certain. More than half had been on scouting missions in the complete opposite direction, the rest helping Raila and Patton set up a base camp. Hopefully, the sound of their battle would suffice as a call for help. 

Surely, the dragon should have retreated by now, but it seemed determined to take the three sheep it had killed. Roman and Logan now stood between it and its bounty. 

Logan’s fire spell sputtered out, and he swayed with fatigue, the clearing significantly darker without the light. He rubbed his eyes, steadying himself against a tree. Roman took the cue and charged, sword ready to attack. The dragon growled, lips curling up over glistening fangs, violet flames licking through the gaps. Roman raised his dragonscale shield preemptively—a smart move considering it was only second later the beast let loose a violet blaze, the flame curling around his shield and singeing his forearms. Roman’s sword grew hot in his grip, but he didn’t let go. 

The dragon turned, and Roman cursed. He couldn’t lower his shield in time to see what it was—

Roman heard the hollow whistle of the dragon’s tail whipping through the air before he saw it. His instincts told him to watch the head, note the rotation of the body. It was much too far to do him any serious damage, so why…

Roman’s heart bottomed out. He heard the impact, a pitiful thing like someone smacking a stray fly, and the chilling crunch of soft-human-body meets hard-spiked-tail. Logan flew across the clearing, tumbling to a limp, bloody stop. Blood pounded in Roman’s ears as what could either have been a battle cry or a horrified wail tore from his throat. The sound was raw, _primitive_ almost. Even the dragon hesitated. 

_Good,_ Roman thought as adrenaline pumped through him. _All_ _the better_ _to kill you, beast._

Roman wasn’t magical in the technical sense. He wasn’t a warlock like Logan, or a healer like Patton. He had no formal training aside from combat, and yet his those of royal lineage were somewhat known for their random bursts of mystical power. Something to do with being a prophecy-bearer, scholars figured. Roman, frankly, couldn’t care less. All he felt was pure rage coursing through him. Power filled him and he felt as if he’d vibrate right out of his own skin. The tears falling down his cheeks evaporated, leaving behind salty trails. 

Roman flipped his grip on his sword and pulled it back like a javelin. With a heart-wrenching cry, he let it fly. The sword shot through the air like an arrow, glowing with the full force of a prince’s rage. The dragon reeled back, trying to dodge, but it couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. 

The blade sunk hilt deep into the creature’s chest. Low enough that Roman was sure it hadn’t pierced its heart, but certainly a lung. The dragon beat its wings, blood frothing at the corners of its fanged mouth and wheezing roar limping out of its throat. The beast rose into the sky and disappeared in a frantic retreat over the tips of the trees. 

Roman was left trembling in the wake of his sudden power, its absence leaving him feeling hollow. He’d lost his sword, but he didn’t care. Roman could barely make out the motionless lump that was Logan in the quickly waning evening light as he stumbled through the watery field. The water around Logan was dark with blood. 

“No, no, no,” he muttered, terrified. Roman fell to his knees at his side, mud filling his boots like cement. He flipped the warlock over and felt as if someone had closed a fist around his heart and squeezed it to stillness. Logan’s chest was a collection of impossibly deep gashes, his chest odd and indented where the dragon’s tail had crumpled it in on itself like he was no more substantial than a doll with paper bones. Roman’s eyes trailed miserably up his lover’s body, finding his collarbone just as crushed as the rest of his body. Blood flecked one side of his neck and face, his eyes open and unseeing, staring into the middle distance. They were dull. Lifeless. 

Roman’s hands trembled as he crawled forward, attempting to say something, _anything,_ but all that came out was a strangled sob. He cradled Logan against his chest, crying hysterically. 

Logan didn’t miraculously wake up. Roman was a prince of royal lineage, bestowed with the power of prophecy, and all he could do was rock back and forth in the freezing, bloody mud and scream at the stars.

* * *

“Stop playing with the sheep carcass,” Janus chided halfheartedly in Remus’s direction, washing the blood from his hands. 

“You’re no fun,” Remus grumbled, plucking absently at the tendons to see the bloody hooves jerk around. 

Janus shook his head, smiling softly. He watched the gray sky through the mouth of the cave, searching for a familiar dark silhouette. Virgil had never taken this long hunting before, and Janus really preferred to process all the day’s catch in one go. The quicker he could skin and butcher the rest of their food, the quicker he could finish prepping for the early winter that would soon grow into a season of endless blizzards and horrible flying conditions. 

As if on cue, miniscule flakes of snow began swirling weightlessly through the air. A breeze of wintery wind slithered through the front half of the cave, curling around Janus like an icy hand cupping his face. He shivered, flaring the furnace in his chest with a rumbling hum and warming himself from the inside out, his throat glowing liquid gold beneath his skin. 

“He’ll be back,” Remus assured, coming to stand next him. He hadn’t bothered to wash the sheep blood from his hands, instead content to simply lick his fingers. Janus wrinkled his nose but said nothing. It was dragons like Remus that perpetuated their stereotype of grotesque violence. 

Janus still couldn’t shake the uneasy pit growing in his stomach. 

At last, Virgil appeared from behind one of the many peaks hiding their home. However, Janus’s sigh of relief withered in his throat. Virgil was barely keeping himself in the air, dipping down randomly and flapping frantically, but he carried no load. Remus breathed a curse. 

Janus didn’t stop to think. He sprinted out of the cave and leaped off the edge of the cliff, shifting in mid air. His massive golden wings unfurled as his body exploded in size. He was the biggest of the three of them, measuring some eighty feet long and fifty feet at the shoulder, and was at Virgil’s side after only a beat or two of his wings. 

_What’s wrong?! What happened?_ he asked frantically, but all he could sense from Virgil’s mind was pain and fear. At last, his inky black wings gave out, and he began to fall. Janus dove after him, gently securing him against his underbelly and flaring his wings out to slow their descent. He could feel Virgil’s sporadic breathing against his claws, the jet black dragon writhing weakly. 

Janus was too big to fit into the cave as he was, and wouldn’t be able to get close enough to the cliff side while carrying Virgil unless he wanted to just drop him the last couple of feet. Due to his size, Janus usually had to shift in mid air and rely on the leftover momentum to carry him into the cave. 

_Remus! Help me!_ he gasped, hovering outside the cave. The muscles in his back and wing joints began to tremble from the strain of it all. Virgil might have been smaller than him, but he wasn’t exactly light either. Dragons weren’t built to carry heavy loads. The most they hauled on a regular basis were the sheep or occasional cows they caught. 

Remus stepped off the cliff side, slipping easily into his other form and streaking into the sky. He was a different breed of dragon, with shorter legs, a significantly longer body, and two thread-like whiskers extending from his snout.

Most notably, Remus didn’t have wings. His kind—what was left of them, at least—wove through the air like ribbons undulating and twirling in a graceful dance. Due to the high concentration of magic in their bodies to facilitate wingless flight, they’d been hunted to near extinction for their bones and the long strip of silky fur running down their spines. 

Remus came up beneath Janus, taking Virgil from him and retreating into the safety of the cave. Janus beat his wings and backed away from the mountainside before circling back around and flying straight for the opening. When he was mere seconds from crashing into the mountain, he shifted, letting the momentum carry him through the air. Janus hit the ground and rolled, springing up to his feet and rushing into the cave. 

Remus shifted back, leaving Virgil laying on his side. Now, with his underbelly exposed, Janus could see the hilt of a sword protruding from between his ribs. 

“Oh, Virgil,” he breathed, cautiously approaching the wounded dragon. He was in a lot of pain and could easily lash out to protect himself, regardless of who it was. 

_I’m sorry,_ Virgil managed weakly, his thoughts pulsing with pain every time he took a breath.

“Shh,” Janus hushed, inspecting the wound. Normal weapons couldn’t pierce their scales, and yet this sword had shattered them, crimson blood oozing slowly around the blade. “It’s doing more good inside you than out,” he concluded. “You’d bleed out in seconds, otherwise.”

“Who did this?” Remus growled. Janus withheld a shiver at his tone. He didn’t have to turn and look at Remus to know there was murder in his eyes. “Virgil, tell me who did this. I’ll tear them apart. I’ll skin them alive and make their children _watch—”_

“Remus, please,” Janus sighed. 

_I was hunting near the kingdom,_ Virgil admitted. 

Janus’s blood went cold. “You _what?”_

“So,” Remus snarled, “it was that prince, then? Great, I’ve been wanting to tear that guy’s head off for _years.”_

 _We need the food. There’s not enough here in the mountains to last the winter,_ Virgil said. 

“We definitely won’t survive the winter if we’re hunted down and killed, Virgil,” Janus said, exasperated. He pinched his nose and wracked his mind for a solution. Virgil was alive for now, but wouldn’t last long with an entire sword impaling his lung. “Remus, you stay here with Virgil. I’ll get some help.”

“ _Help?_ Who’s going to help us?” Remus demanded. 

“Ravaging the kingdom won’t make things better, Remus. Virgil is _dying.”_

He folded his arms, not admitting Janus was right, but not arguing further either. Remus glared at the sword hilt with a seething rage that Janus knew no one could keep at bay for long. 

He’d just have to find Emile before that happened. 

“Watch him,” he said forcefully, staring Remus down. “I’ll be back soon with a healer. _Don’t let him die.”_

“Obviously,” Remus grumped. Janus tried for a reassuring smile, but it came out as more of a grimace than anything else. He nodded, gave Virgil one more concerned look, then ran out of the cave, launching into the snow-filled air. 


	2. stuck in the mucky rut between alive and dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: blood and gore, graphic depictions of violence, threats, choking, unhealthy sibling/family relationships, panic attacks (hyperventilation)
> 
> The title for this chapter comes from "Double Helix Kyrie" by Raymond Luczak

Roman stumbled through the dark woods. He wasn’t even sure he was going the right direction. His arms burned like hellfire, but he couldn’t stop. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d get back up. Not with Logan in his arms, and Roman was _not_ leaving him behind. His partner’s blood bathed the front of Roman’s princely tunic, now half-dried and sticky like tar. It was all Roman could smell with every step he took, every panting breath he wheezed. 

At last, his blurring vision glimpsed the flicker of torchlight through the trees. Roman heard shouts of alarm from camp, but they sounded leagues away. Armored figures approached him, but he didn’t stop his shuffling walk, trembling arms stiff, unable and unwilling to release their load. 

“Where’s Patton?” he croaked as his soldiers worried around him, shaking off their hands of assistance. “Find Patton. I need him. Someone get Patton.” 

He scanned the camp, eyes fixating on the limp red flag staked outside one of the many brown canvas tents filling the clearing. The medical tent. The soldiers gathered, but the more seasoned ones kept their distance. A few of the newer soldiers, who hadn’t been around Roman enough to know better, attempted to take Logan from his arms. 

Roman fixed one—only slightly younger than himself—with a stare that could fill a person’s mouth with blood. 

“Touch him and I’ll rip your tongue out, soldier,” he said, not stopping his limping march to the medical tent. The captain pulled the younger one away, a concerned but understanding look on her face. Roman continued on as she began barking orders to the soldiers to return to their watches or various chores.

Patton finally appeared from inside the tent, his apprentice, a youth named Elliot, at his side. Blood drained from the healer’s face at the sight of the prince and warlock. Elliot covered their mouth with their hand. 

“What happened?” Patton breathed, pulling the flap aside as Roman stumbled through. The tent was bigger than the rest, several chests of books and supplies lining the sides and a large, filled water basin in the corner. A single wooden table the length of an average person’s body sat in the middle of the space. Roman fell against the table, Logan flopping out of his arms onto it. Elliot stared at the corpse on the table in horror. 

“Your Highness, are you injured?” Patton asked. 

“How dare you ask me something like that with Logan looking like this,” he said, bracing his hands on the table and letting his head hang down. The smell of blood wafting from the table and his own clothes filled his lungs, making his head swim. “Heal him.”

“Please, Your Highness, you aren’t well, you must—”

The stench became too much, and Roman retched onto the ground, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the table for support. He hadn’t eaten since last night, so all that came up was water and bile. The ordeal left him trembling and sweaty. 

“I must _nothing,”_ he panted, motioning to Elliot to clean up his mess. The apprentice scurried to one of the chests, gathering rags and dunking them in the water basin. “Heal him, Patton. That’s an order.”

“He’s dead, Your Highness,” the healer said gently. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“ _The_ _hell there isn’t!”_ he bellowed. Patton flinched and Elliot jumped, nearly knocking over their bucket of water as they scrubbed the tent floor. “You’ve brought me back from the brink of death before, healer, now I am ordering you to bring him back!”

“Yes, but you’re different, my prince,” Patton explained. Roman twitched. He was so _patronizing_. “You’re a prophecy bearer. You cannot die outside the bounds of what’s been foreto—”

Roman’s hand shot out without him looking up, closing around Patton’s throat. Elliot screamed. Roman slowly lifted his head, meeting the healer’s wild, desperate eyes as he clawed at Roman’s fist. “If you mean to imply, for even a _second,_ that Logan is less important than me, I will have you beheaded with a blunt axe.”

Patton’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, eyes watering. Roman squeezed harder. He needed to kill something. 

_“Stop it!”_ Elliot shrieked, but the stupid kid was too scared to actually do anything about it.

“Do I make myself _perfectly_ clear?” he snarled. Patton managed a weak nod, and Roman released him. The healer collapsed to his knees, wheezing. 

“You two are useless,” he said, resigned. “I’ll find someone to bring Logan back myself.” He turned and stumbled out of the tent, but paused at the door. “For both of your sakes, I better return to find his body cleaned and stitched up. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Patton said. Elliot nodded quickly. Roman gave a distantly amused snort before letting the tent flap fall closed behind him. The soldiers all went about their duties in silence. It was obvious they’d all been listening. _Let them gossip,_ Roman thought sourly. _It’s not as if they see me as anything more than a tyrant._ He wouldn’t be able to sleep despite his exhaustion, Roman knew that much. Without Logan beside him, he doubted he’d ever sleep restfully again. 

The captain, Raila, stood patiently outside, cocking an eyebrow at his disheveled state. 

“You didn’t kill our best healer, I hope.”

“Of course not,” Roman grumbled, making for the creek just outside camp. He had to get this blood off of him before he vomited again. He glanced at the sizable cookfire the soldiers had constructed and Roman’s vision swam with images of rolling blue flame, his ears filling with the roar of a dragon. 

Logan rolling his eyes with bemusement at Roman’s besottedness. 

Raila suddenly grabbed him and walked him off into the darkness of the trees, shouldering most of his weight and practically dragging him. He couldn’t get his feet to move quick enough. 

“What’re you doing?” he groaned. “I’ll kill you.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Raila grunted, dropping the formalities as soon as they were out of earshot of the rest of the camp. “I simply figured you didn’t want the rest of the brigade to see you crying.”

“What?” Roman muttered, bringing a hand to his face. It was wet with tears turned pinkish by the dried blood on his face. “Whatever. I need to get this blood off me. Unhand me.” 

“No can do, little brother,” she said, pulling one of his arms across her broad shoulders. The motion sent waves of pain through his bruised ribs and he nearly passed out. “Pretty sure you’d drown in two inches of water in the state you’re in. ”

Roman let out a queasy groan as Raila trudged toward the creek.

“You better not throw up on my uniform, princey,” she grumbled. Raila had rescinded her title as princess four years ago in exchange for a position as a military general. She’d gotten her wish despite their mother’s concerns, though during peacetimes such as this, she occupied her time functioning as the captain of Roman’s guard. Raila wasn’t the kind of person to sit back and write up law proposals to get what she wanted. She went out in the street and got her hands dirty. 

That was one reason she and Roman got along the best out of all their siblings. Roman knew his position as third oldest out of five—though the fifth really didn’t count as competition—wasn’t the most ideal for coveting the throne, but having someone that wasn’t only the eldest but a brilliant military strategist on his side was one of the best choices he’d made. 

“I think it’s time I paid our baby brother a visit,” he said as Raila lowered him onto the creek bed. She helped him pull his tunic up over his head. Red and purple bruises mottled his ribs. 

“You can’t be serious,” she said, nose wrinkling in disgust as she dropped the tunic to the ground and nudging it away from her with a toe. “We’ll have to burn that,” she muttered to herself. 

“I’m completely serious,” Roman said, crawling rather than wading out into the shallow end of the creek. The water was frigid and helped him clear his mind, soothing the painful pulsing of his wounds. 

“Mother would have an aneurism if she found out.”

“You think?” Roman mused wishfully, lying on his back and letting the water wash over his chest and through his hair. “I visit him almost every day back home and she never says anything.”

“In front of you.”

He shrugged. “Fair.” The rocky creek bed dug into his back, and probably would have hurt his ribs more if the water wasn’t so cold he was practically numb. It reminded him of the first time Logan had given him a hug. He’d flinched away, ready for him to hit him or perhaps even put him in a headlock—something Raila had done on numerous occasions. When he’d at last allowed Logan to embrace him, his skin had almost burned at the touch—like stepping into warm water after surviving a blizzard. The concept of letting someone touch him for extended periods of time and being okay with it, even _enjoying it,_ had been a foreign concept to Roman at the time. Logan had called it _touch starvation._

Roman would have preferred his prior ignorance to this. Slowly starved of the touch he now craved and missing the exact person needed to fix it. 

_It’s hardly time for that, dearest._

“You’re shaking,” Raila noted without particular inflection. 

“Yeah, I’m sitting in freezing water,” Roman spat, sitting up. His ribs protested, making him gasp. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, though, angrily scrubbing at the blood that the water hadn’t yet washed from his chest and arms. Everything felt wrong. Raila sitting there watching him. Logan’s body lying in a tent not too far away. He couldn’t get the blood out from under his nails. Why couldn’t he _breathe?_

“You know,” Raila started, her voice soft and not at all like her usual self, “I’ve seen that look on my soldier’s faces before, usually after a battle.”

“I’m drowning,” he gasped. He needed Logan, but thinking about him made it worse. He just heard the crunch of bones, smelled his blood. 

“You aren’t drowning, you’re panicking. You have to control your breathing,” Raila said, somehow sounding sympathetic and like a know-it-all at the same time. It made Roman’s skin itch. She wasn’t compassionate, and neither was he. It was what their entire relationship was based on. 

“Shut up,” he growled, grabbing fistfuls of the hair at the nape of his neck. “Just shut up and leave me alone.” 

“Of course, _Your Highness_ ,” she snapped, standing and tossing his bloody tunic at him, apparently done with trying to be nice to him. She stalked off towards camp without looking back. He flung the tunic away from him, not caring that it drifted away down the creek. It got caught around a protruding stone a few yards downstream.

Roman eventually dragged himself out of the water and curled up on the ground in a very unprincely manner and broke down into uncontrollable sobs and shivering fits—something he hadn’t even dared in the privacy of his room back in the castle for fear of his father’s retribution. 

Footsteps too careful to be Raila’s approached him from the direction of camp, stopping a few feet away. 

“You’ll take ill out here like that, Your Highness,” the person said softly. It was Patton.

“Leave me be, healer,” he hissed through chattering teeth, curling in on himself. He couldn’t let anyone see him so vulnerable. Least of all the man he’d choked not thirty minutes ago. He didn’t have any weapons on him, and he was is no state to defend himself if Patton decided to take his revenge.

Patton walked around him and squatted in front of his face. “As much as I’d love to do that,” he sighed, “I can’t let you die under my watch. Now, I’m going to need you to take some deep breaths for me.”

“Go _away,”_ he said through gritted teeth, his voice breaking. He kept gulping down air, but it wasn’t working. His head swam like he was going to pass out. A terrifying numbness began to buzz in Roman, up his jaw and cheeks, making it hard to keep his eyes open. The sensation spread down his arms and hands. His fingers cramped and curled in on themselves, unresponsive. His ears began to ring. 

“I can’t… I can’t move,” he gasped. 

Patton pressed his hand against Roman’s cheek, cradling his face gently. “You’re going to be fine, Roman. You have to slow down your breathing.” 

“What happened?” another voice asked from beside Patton. It was Elliot. 

“He’s having a panic attack. A bad one. Quick, what does he need?” Patton quizzed the apprentice. If Roman were in a more coherent state, he would have laughed. Now didn’t seem the best time to be giving his student a lesson. Roman could feel his heart beating throughout this entire body. 

“I don’t—um,” Elliot floundered.

“Stay calm, Elliot,” Patton said sternly. “Think. You’re going to need a sedative, right?”

“Right. Yes. Chamomile?”

“No. Why not?”

Elliot shifted back and forth on their feet. “Oh! He’s got bruising—possible internal bleeding. Chamomile can thin the blood. Okay, in that case I’d use… valerian?”

“Yes. There’s a poultice already made in the left pocket of my daypack,” Patton said with a smile, and Elliot took off running toward the medical tent. 

Patton brushed his thumb across Roman’s cheekbone in what must have been an attempt at comfort, but the motion just filled Roman’s head with Logan, laying in their bed, watching him sleep, caressing Roman until he fell asleep against his chest. It was all gone. Even with the help of his brother, it would never be the same. He’d changed Roman’s life so drastically, and they’d only known each other for a year. Maybe less. He’d died just as suddenly. A blink, and he was gone. 

Elliot returned in a flash, skidding to a stop in the dirt. Patton grabbed something from him and shoved it into Roman’s mouth. He nearly choked. 

“Chew on it,” Patton ordered with more force than Roman would have thought possible for the healer. “Swallow the juices.” 

Roman slowly obeyed, chewing around his hiccupping gasps. The taste was overwhelmingly bitter, and he almost spit it out.

“That’s the triple dose, isn’t it?” Elliot asked, his voice far away as Roman’s mind grew fuzzy. 

“Yes,” Patton replied. “I won’t envy the headache he’ll wake up with, but by then he’ll have hopefully calmed down a bit.” 

Roman’s breathing slowed at last, the numbness in his hands and face ebbing away. As the darkness took over, the prince relinquished himself to what would likely be the last full night of sleep he’d have for the foreseeable future.


	3. rage alone isn't fuel enough to enable me to fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: headaches, extreme cold, numbness, toxic family relationships, flashbacks, mention of a corpse
> 
> The title for this chapter is from "Double Helix Kyrie" by Raymond Luczak

Janus flew through the night without stopping. It had started snowing in earnest after the first hour or so, making his muscles stiff and decreasing visibility. He’d almost run into a snow-capped peak at one point, but the higher he flew, the more volatile the winds became. It was exhausting. Janus had to beat his wings twice as hard to go half as far as he normally would amidst the growing storm. He smelled the air often, on the lookout for any sort of static build up in the clouds. Dragons were notorious for attracting lightning while in the air. 

When he at last arrived at the distant village, he couldn't feel his wings at all. Approaching the ground for a landing in the snow-covered meadow behind the healer’s modest cottage, Janus’s legs buckled beneath him and he hit the snow with a thunderous thud. He tried to fold his wings against his back, but the muscles wouldn’t respond, instead content to tremble and be useless. The icy wind slipped beneath his wings and, despite his best efforts, filled them like parachutes, sending him skidding snout-over-tail into the trees at the edge of the clearing. 

“Janus?!” a voice shouted over the howling wind. Through the snow, he saw the disheveled healer holding a flickering lantern, shirt half-tucked and feet shoved shoddily into untied boots. Janus needed to shift, but he couldn’t focus long enough with the wind threatening to pluck him off the ground, and his mind threatening unconsciousness. If he passed out, he’d be stuck as a dragon until he came to.

Emile tromped through the knee-deep snow, one hand raised against the blizzard. “Did you _fly_ in this? Janus, you could have been hurt!”

 _I’m not the one you should_ _be worried_ _about_ _,_ he spoke to the healer’s mind. At last getting one of his wings under control by shoving up against a tree and crumpling it into place. The other caught another gust of wind and wrenched back, the muscles in his back and shoulders tweaking painfully. 

Setting the lantern down, Emile scrambled up Janus’s shoulder—a foolhardy attempt that, with one fatal slip, could have ended with them both stranded out in the snow—reaching precariously far and secured his hands around the first major joint in his wings, dragging them down toward his body. With a lull in the howling winds, Janus at last closed his trembling wings.

Before he could succumb to unconsciousness, Janus made one last-ditch effort to shift. His form shrank instantly, and Emile let out a surprised cry. The healer landed on top of Janus, knocking all the wind out him. 

“Oh no! Janus, why did you wait for me to—oh jeez, are you okay?” he fretted, scrambling off of Janus and brushing the snow off him. 

“Inside,” he croaked, trying to roll over, to crawl, _something_. His arms wouldn’t listen to him. They just hung there uselessly, throbbing in the snow. The middle of a blizzard was no place to explain what had happened. Besides, Emile was starting to shake. He wasn’t even wearing a coat. Janus would be fine, the fire inside him more than enough to keep him warm all night if he had to, but the foolishly kind mortal had come out here in nothing more than day clothes. 

“Right. Of course,” he said, hooking his hands beneath Janus’s arms and dragging him through the snow toward the cottage. Emile fell several times, slipping in the slush, but didn’t give up. 

Janus passed out before they reached the house.

* * *

Roman was an obstinate prince, and he knew it well. Enough, in fact, that it didn’t surprise him that his sister took advantage of him being sedated to pack up camp and start the brigade’s course back toward the castle. They’d traveled through the night—they must have, given the plush bed Roman was laying in and the faint rays of morning light streaming through gossamer curtains to his left. His head pounded worse than any hangover he’d suffered before, as if someone were driving a metal spike through his eye socket with every beat of his heart. 

Squinting through the pain, Roman found himself alone in his quarters, dressed in clean, satin sleep clothes. The fireplace on the opposite wall was empty and cold. The pale stone walls loomed over him, coming together in ribbed vaults at their apex. On the left wall hung various swords and daggers for him to practice with whenever he pleased—and he often did. 

His eyes finished their wander around the room at the grand bookshelf near the curtained window. Logan’s books. Roman tried to swallow, but couldn’t get past the lump in his throat. The warlock had been content reading in the palace library, but Roman had used any excuse to be around Logan. 

_You stole all the books on sorcery?_

_I didn’t_ steal _them. Just_ _relocated_ _them._

_Into your room?_

_Is that a problem?_

Roman remembered Logan’s smile then. He so rarely smiled. It had become a sort of mission for the prince to bring a smile, however faint, to that studious face. 

Roman heaved a shuddering breath, biting back the urge to dissolve into hysterics again. Why was no one around? Surely Patton, or even an attendant would be tasked with watching him. He was injured after all. 

_Who am I kidding?_ he thought, resigned. _My parents would throw a ball if I dropped dead. One less thing for them to worry about._

As if on cue, the door to his chambers opened and a herald stepped through. Roman groaned and pulled one of his many pillows over his face in preparation. 

“The Queen is here for an audience with Prince Roman,” the stuffy man announced. Roman flipped him off from beneath the pillow. The herald scoffed and left, the soft click of the queen’s shoes replacing him. 

“That isn’t very princely of you, Roman,” she tutted before he could lower his hand. 

“Apologies,” he muttered, feigning nonchalance. In truth, being around his mother in such a vulnerable state sent cold fear dripping down his spine. He had nothing to threaten her with.

“Oh, really,” she huffed, plucking the pillow away from his face and tossing it to the floor. “Don’t be so dramatic. Raila told me what happened. Warlocks die all the time. The fools are always overtaxing themselves in battle, leaving themselves vulnerable. It’s too bad, though. Yours lasted far longer than any of mine have,” the queen said, inspecting her nails. 

Roman _knew_ she was trying to get a rise out of him, but knowing her agenda didn’t make her words any less infuriating. 

“What can I do for you, mother?” he asked, murderously pleasant.

She stroked his cheek with a sharp-nailed hand. “Is it so unbelievable that I wanted to check up on you, dear?”

Roman suppressed a shiver, meeting her gaze defiantly. She pursed her lips, hand pausing on his jaw, unimpressed by his silence. 

“Right,” she said, giving his cheek a rough pat that Roman flinched against, despite his best efforts. “Don’t lounge around all day. I’ll expect you at dinner.”

With that said, the queen left. 

Roman let out an explosive sigh, running his hands down his face. He swung his legs out from under his blankets and over the side of the bed, forcing himself up into a seat. The room lurched, his head pounding anew. It took several minutes before Roman figured he could stand without immediately collapsing.

There was a knock at the door. “Your Highness?” Patton called through the door. 

“What do you want?” he snapped, leaning against his bedpost. 

The healer opened the door and stepped inside. “I came to remove the healing sigil, Your Highness,” he explained, holding up his bag. “It should have done its job by now.”

“Healing sigil…?” Roman said.

“I inscribed one on the journey last night,” Patton said with an amused smile. “If you would remove your shirt, Your Highness.”

Roman unbuttoned his top and found an inky black symbol in the middle of his chest. “I’ve never seen you use one of these before,” he said curiously.

“You’d broken three ribs,” Patton explained, motioning for Roman to sit on his bed. He unclasped his medical bag and rifled through it. “I simply figured you wouldn’t want to be stuck in the castle for six weeks while they healed.”

Roman shuddered at the thought. Unable to escape his parents or siblings for a month and a half? He’d rather fight a hundred dragons. Patton took out a bottle of clear liquid and a small metal device that looked like a safety pin with a thimble attached to the end. 

He paused, looking up. “How’s your head?”

“Terrible.”

Patton plucked a tiny vial from his bag and motioned for Roman to hold out his hand. He tapped out about a teaspoon’s worth of cobalt blue powder. “Let this dissolve on your tongue. It should help.”

Roman sniffed it quizzically. “What is it?”

“If I wanted to kill you, Your Highness, I would have done it out by the stream,” Patton sighed. 

_He has a point,_ Roman figured and downed the powder. Blueberry flavor exploded across his tongue and he almost coughed. 

“I’m going to take your pulse,” Patton said, setting an open notebook on the side table. “I can take it on your wrist or neck. Which would you prefer?”

Roman held out his arm, not keen on the idea of letting someone’s hand that close to his throat. Patton took his hand and pressed two fingers into his wrist, just below his thumb, lips moving soundlessly as he counted to himself. Speaking of throats, the prince noticed Patton’s own was free of any sort of bruising or redness. 

“How’s your neck?” Roman asked as casually as he could manage, as if he hadn’t literally strangled the man less than twenty-four hours ago.

Patton stiffened, ignoring him for a moment as he finished his count. “Well,” he said, dropping Roman’s hand and scribbling something down in his notebook without looking up at him, “I _am_ a healer, so it’s doing better than it would have ordinarily.” 

Roman squirmed a bit. “Right. Well, um, that’s good.” 

“I need to listen to your breathing to ensure the ribs have healed properly,” Patton continued clinically. “May I place my ear on your chest?”

“Why do you keep asking me if you can do things?” Roman chuckled. 

Patton still didn’t meet his eye. “Because you and your siblings have a propensity for attacking those who touch you without warning. May I?”

“Knock yourself out.”

The healer bent down and pressed his ear to one side of Roman’s chest, the skin-to-skin contact making the hair on the back of his neck rise. 

“Deep breath,” the healer muttered. Roman obeyed, biting his cheek against the memories threatening to flood his mind. _Logan and him laying in bed together, the warlock’s head resting against his chest, just as Patton’s was now._

“And another,” the healer said, shifting to the other side of his chest, right over his no doubt frantic heart. Roman gripped the blankets until his knuckles were white, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

Patton pulled away, glancing down at Roman’s fists. “Was there any pain while you were breathing?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll remove the sigil, then.” He uncorked the bottle and poured some into his palm. It came out slowly, a syrup of some kind. Patton spread the strange liquid onto Roman’s chest, careful not to smudge the sigil. He flinched, surprised by how cold it was.

“May I ask you something, Your Highness?” the healer asked softly, almost unsure.

“What is it?”

Patton paused, his fingertips hovering just over the prince’s collar bone. “Have you ever apologized for something?”

Roman snorted. “Of course I have. I apologize to my parents all the time.”

“Other than the king and queen.”

Roman thought back. “I think I apologized to Reid once,” he said. His older brother had had to break one of his fingers to force it out of him, but it was an apology nonetheless. “Why?”

Patton pressed his lips into a hard line. “Nevermind,” he muttered, holding the small metal device just above his chest. “Prepare yourself.”

Before Roman could even open his mouth, Patton squeezed both sides of the pin. Sparks flew from within the thimble-like bowl, and the syrup ignited with a sharp hiss and a flash of green flame. In an instant, it was gone, leaving his chest dry and bare of any markings.

Roman yelped, scrambling back over the mattress. Patton fought a smile. 

“You didn’t warn me on purpose,” he accused, heart racing. 

Patton blinked at him innocently. “Would you like an apology, Your Highness?”

“Get out.”

“Certainly.” The healer grabbed his things and went to leave, giving a stiff bow. 

“Wait!”

Patton hesitated. “Yes, Your Highness?”

Roman swallowed, trying not to sound too desperate. “Logan. Where is he?”

Patton’s expression softened somewhat, his shoulder’s relaxing. “He’s safe and cleaned up in my office. I even put a preservation spell on him.” 

“Move him to the dungeons,” Roman said, lowering his voice. “As discretely as you can. Don’t let anyone see.”

Patton’s brow furrowed. “The… dungeons, my prince?”

Roman tore his signet ring from his finger and shoved it into Patton’s hands. “Show this to the dungeon guard and they’ll let you pass. _Please,”_ he begged—perhaps for the first time to someone of a lower social standing than him.

Patton nodded, taking and ring and exiting the room. Roman’s headache was almost completely gone, thanks to that mysterious powder. 

It was time to visit his baby brother.

* * *

Remus paced the cave for what must have been the thousandth time. Virgil lay in his dragon form, eyes half-lidded, panting slightly. The sword hilt still stuck out from between his ribs tauntingly. He’d figured pretty quickly that the blade hadn’t pierced Virgil’s heart. He wouldn’t be alive right now if it had. What was more likely, he’d simply been insanely lucky and only punctured one lung.

Morning light peeked over the mountain peaks, the sky empty. No sign of Janus. The snow had cleared up, at least.

It made Remus twitchy with rage at the thought of that snot-nosed prince injuring, and possibly eventually killing, his best friend’s partner. Janus would probably die of grief. And then Remus would be alone. Again.

Giving in, Remus started toward the cave entrance. “Don’t die while I’m out, Virgil.”

 _Where are you going?_ he asked weakly, his tail twitching. There was human blood still smearing its spikes.

“To capture a prince.” He didn’t _want_ to leave Virgil alone, but it wasn’t going to change anything if he _did_ end up dying before Janus got back. Remus would just have to sit and watch.

Instead of arguing, Virgil quipped, _Capture? I thought you wanted to rip his head off._

Remus reached the edge of the cliff then turned back, shrugging. “I like to play with my food.” And with that, he tipped backwards into the air with a salute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the device Patton uses to burn away the healing sigil is based off of vintage flint strikers. Here's a [picture.](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/f5/9d/08/f59d089fe20f0b603568c4d4ba6b27f7.jpg)


End file.
